How could my people
do this to me?
Picnic in my shade
and nap there,
climb my limbs,
collect autumn leaves –
then do this to me!
I am ashamed!
How can they do this to me?
How can they hang
their own kind
from my branches?
Bodies
do not ornament!
They think I can’t feel
this burden?
I cannot endure to live
if this is what they do.
I harbor life,
not bring death!
I am ashamed!
I’d rather die!
Cut me! Burn me!
But don’t use me to kill.
My roots are curling,
leaves are wilting, I
am dying…